The Fire in Your Eyes
by ThePreciousHeart
Summary: After the fall of the Van der Linde gang, its survivors are left with a choice- to forget, or forgive. To Sadie Adler, Charles Smith, and John Marston, both are out of the question. A series of pieces exploring the effect of Arthur's death and how Sadie, Charles, and John came together to avenge him.
1. Sadie

The ride to Copperhead Landing couldn't have lasted more than a couple hours, but Sadie Adler felt as if she'd been up on her horse forever, steely-eyed and stiff as a board against the rushing wind. Abigail shuddered with sobs for most of the trip, clinging desperately to Sadie's back, but while Sadie longed to calm her, she didn't dare remove her focus from the unfurling road. Now was not the time for useless words of comfort, if they had hopes of making it out alive. Still, Abigail's heartbreak reminded Sadie that she'd been in her shoes not so long ago. A wave of exhaustion staggered her as she considered all that had happened in the months since Colm O'Driscoll ruined her life. Her marriage and the cabin in the mountains seemed like remnants of a fairytale she'd dreamed up as a child, instead of a past she had inhabited.

When Sadie and Abigail reached their destination, Sadie didn't expect to find much that would lift her spirits. Hell, it was hard enough lifting them on a normal day. But when Tilly stepped out from the wreckage of a house, followed by Jack, and Abigail let out a grateful gasp… well, that was enough for anyone to reconsider their cynicism. Abigail was off the horse the instant they came to a stop, rushing across the marshy ground to gather her son into her arms. "My boy! Oh, my precious boy…"

"You made it." Tilly didn't sound relieved, or overjoyed to see Abigail and Sadie, or fearful of the future. She just sounded tired. _As are we all._ Sadie nodded, forcing back the weariness as she dismounted from her horse. "For now." Although she hadn't seen any lawmen in pursuit on their way to the rendezvous, she wasn't about to drop her guard. Now that Abigail and Jack had been reunited, her next goal was to stay on her feet until their permanent safety was ensured. _We ain't spilling any more blood today if we can help it._

"Thank you," Abigail breathed as she drew Tilly into an embrace. "Thank you for keeping my son safe."

"Don't thank me," Tilly responded, though her arms locked forcefully around Abigail. "It was Arthur… He sent me and Jack on our way here. We might not have made it if he hadn't…" She released Abigail, and now Sadie saw the worry rising in her eyes, breaking free from the composure she'd had to project for Jack's sake.

"Did you see him?" she said timidly, as if she wanted to know but feared the answer.

Though the question had been directed towards Abigail, Sadie took it upon herself to answer. "He rode off once we sprung Abigail free. Had some unfinished business at Beaver Hollow." As the words left Sadie's mouth, she felt her hands shake. Tightly, she clenched them together. _Damn fool. Running off to save a bunch of folks who ain't worth it…_ But the frustration fled quickly. The mere thought of Arthur's bloodshot gaze and ragged breaths left an empty feeling in her gut. She didn't want to believe it, but she knew a dead man walking when she saw one.

Tilly took a deep breath, steadying herself to speak. "I've done my part. I guess I'll be heading out."

"No!" Abigail insisted, clutching at Tilly's sleeve. "Don't go back… stay with us…"

"Don't get me wrong. I ain't going back." Again Tilly steadied herself with a breath. "But I'm doing you no good by sticking around here. A smaller group will draw less attention. You get out and go find a place to stay. Start again."

Abigail looked as if she wanted to protest, but reason won out in the end. "Oh, Tilly." They shared another embrace, while Sadie hung back, threading her fingers through her horse's mane. Over the past month, Tilly had treated Sadie with nothing but kindness, and Sadie would be sorry to see her leave. But there was a world of difference between parting with a friendly ally who'd helped her in a time of crisis, and saying goodbye to someone who might as well have been family. Between the loss of John and now the gang's split, it was a wonder Abigail was still holding up. _She's a fighter. Like Arthur. Like me…_

The first to speak after Tilly had ridden off was Jack, peering inquisitively up at his mother. "Aunt Tilly said that we're moving again."

"She's right," Abigail said, in a voice that was hardly a breath. One hand brushed against Jack's shoulder, as if he'd vanish if she let go for even a second. She looked just as worn out as Tilly had, and as Sadie felt deep inside.

"We've gotta go find shelter. Some place to spend the night, then we'll be on the move in the morning." Abigail turned to Sadie, silently imploring her to make the call. Apparently without Dutch, Arthur, or John around, Sadie came first in command. Under different circumstances, the leadership role might have flattered her, but instead the knowledge of what that position had cost weighed heavy on her mind.

"Okay," Sadie announced. "Our best bet is to stay clear of town. Who knows what kind of storm's been stirred up after that stunt we pulled at Van Horn." Glancing towards Abigail, she felt like adding_ thanks to you_, but she didn't want Jack to ask questions. Besides, Abigail had handled herself admirably. _Milton had a date with a bullet one way or another. I'm just glad it was one of us who finished him off._

"We'll go find dry ground and set up camp." Sadie slid her boot into her horse's stirrup and mounted him. "Come on! There's room up here for two more."

"Is Pa going to join us at our camp?" Jack asked as Abigail lifted him up. "And Uncle Arthur, and Uncle Dutch, and everyone?"

Grief shot across Abigail's face. She swallowed, trying to speak, but Sadie beat her to it, trying not to sound too grim. "No, Jack. It's just us now."

_Us…_ A peculiar word, if Sadie stopped to think about it. Once upon a time,_ us_ had been her parents, then herself and Jake, and then a ragtag bunch of outlaws with whom the Sadie Adler of before would have never fallen in. Now her life revolved around a fellow widow and her son who was still young enough not to understand the misery that this world had to offer. She could leave them right now, if she were so inclined… but she'd be doing a disservice to the woman who had helped pull her from the tortured mire after her husband's murder. If this was to be her path, Sadie had no choice but to tread it.

* * *

Catching dinner provided a decent distraction from the day's hardships, although the land Sadie had staked out had little to offer in the way of big game. _Better than nothing_, she thought as she returned to the campfire that Abigail had started with several plump rabbits in tow. Conversation was kept to a minimum as they cooked and devoured their meals. Even bright-eyed Jack was subdued, possibly still puzzling over what had happened to the gang. Sadie wondered when Abigail would have the heart to tell him.

"Thank you, Sadie," Abigail finally breathed when she'd left nothing of her meal but bones. "For, uh… for sticking with us. I don't know if…" She sighed and swept a loose strand of hair behind her ear, clearly defeated. Drained. Sadie knew the look well.

"I ain't going anywhere," she said. "Not until I know you're safe."

"We'll be fine." Abigail gazed into Sadie's eyes, seemingly trying to convince herself as much as Sadie. "I can handle myself on my own. I've done it before."

"You weren't a mother then," Sadie reminded Abigail. "And I ain't gonna try to let you be one all alone."

Abigail's eyes widened, and Sadie thought she was about to lash out with her tongue. But then her arm slipped around Jack, clutching him close, and her gaze focused on a spot over Sadie's left shoulder. Craning her neck around, Sadie spotted the figure of a man shambling up to their camp. In an instant, she was on her feet, her revolver drawn and poised at his head. The man halted a foot from the fire, throwing his arms out in surrender.

"One more step and you're…" The words died in Sadie's throat as the campfire threw light on the claw marks scoured across the man's right cheek.

"John Marston," she said, in the same moment that Abigail exclaimed, "_You're alive!"_

The camp became a flurry of motion as Abigail and Jack rushed to John's side. Abigail threw her arms around John with such wild abandon that he nearly toppled over. John didn't say a word as he rested his chin against Abigail's shoulder, but his softening expression spoke volumes. Jack joined in, attaching himself to his parents' legs, and a twinge went through Sadie. Thank God they'd been reunited, but the sight served as an unfriendly reminder of the life she'd never gotten the chance to lead. The Marston family had each other, and she didn't have anyone. Not the way they did. By now she was used to the pain, but that didn't mean she had to like it.

"You- Arthur told me-" Abigail babbled. "You was supposed to be dead-"

"No." John released himself from Abigail's grip and stared upon her as if he would never get the chance again. "Dutch left me. Told everyone I'd met my end, but I showed up at camp right when the Pinkertons did…"

"That bastard," Abigail hissed, but there was no bite to her speech. Again she pulled John close. Sadie cleared her throat.

"So you went back to Beaver Hollow?" A million questions stormed her head- _was Arthur there, did he make it out, did the Pinkertons catch anyone, did you retrieve Dutch's stash_\- but she managed to stave them off. Best not to bombard John right away.

"I did." Resolutely, John managed to step away from Abigail, though he didn't let go of her hand. Now that he was standing alone, Sadie noticed a tightness to his face that hadn't been immediately apparent, his jaw firmly set and his eyes blank and guarded. Her own body tensed automatically. _Something happened at Beaver Hollow. John watched someone die._ But she couldn't find the appropriate way to ask, and no further details were forthcoming from John. Catching his longing glance toward the sputtering campfire, Sadie mentally relented. _He's had a hard day. We've all had a hard day_. Just the latest in a never-ending series of hard days, it seemed. Explanations could follow in the morning.

"We can talk about that later," Sadie said. Later, when they'd had a chance to process all that had happened. Later, when Jack was asleep or distracted from the grisly grown-up talk. Later, to cultivate an atmosphere of suspense, even though she knew deep down how the events at Beaver Hollow had played out. _Someone had to die, and it sure wasn't John._

Without another word, Abigail gently led her boys to the fireside. Sadie had the feeling that she didn't care to hear any more about how John had escaped, so long as he was free and safe alongside her. She sat down heavily and poked at the fire's glowing embers with a stick. Only the stars appeared to be watching her, but she wasn't going to bet on it.

* * *

Sadie needed no acclimation when the sun's rays touched her face the next morning. Throughout those first terrible weeks following her husband's death, she'd deluded herself upon waking into believing that she was right where she should be- at her cabin in the mountains, with Jake's arms around her, ready to begin another day of vigorous work. But the mattress was always cold, and eventually she'd had to swallow the truth. This morning, however, Sadie needed no reminder of where she was and what had brought her to this place. She was on the run with the Marston family, stuck to their side like a lost puppy who didn't know any better. _The odd one out_. Now that John was back, her role as self-appointed protector seemed pointless.

The smell of smoke tickled Sadie's nose, and she rolled onto her side to discover its source. She wasn't surprised to see it was John who had re-started the campfire, sitting cross-legged with his hat in his lap while Abigail and Jack dozed on. Though his eyes were open, his gaze appeared to have turned inward, plagued by musings too dark to speak aloud. As silently as she could, Sadie shrugged out of her bedroll and got to her feet, brushing off the dust from her clothes. It was time to talk.

"You're not one to get up before dawn," Sadie commented as she slid into place beside John. He shrugged- not the snappy remark she'd expected.

"I could say the same about you."

"Most days, sure. Today, we're lucky to have gotten up at all." She waited for a reaction, but John didn't give her one. He continued to stare aimlessly at the fire, his thumbs running across his hat's worn fabric. It seemed too forward to broach the subject of last night's events so soon, but Sadie had run out of excuses for conversation. Her burning curiosity gripped her and refused to let go.

"So what happened back there?"

John sighed, finally dragging his head up to gaze at the gray clouds above, without glancing Sadie's way. "Is it later already?"

"Why you holding out?" Somewhere in Sadie's heart, she knew that it wasn't fair to expect John to open up to her, not when yesterday's events were so fresh and Abigail lay sleeping mere inches away. But dammit, she had to find out somehow. The fates of the ones she had left behind were murky, and only John was able to clarify them.

Though John didn't seem inclined to snap back at Sadie, her words were the provocation he'd needed. "There's not much to say. The camp was falling apart by the time I got back. Folks at each other's throats. Micah…" He swallowed, and Sadie saw his grip on his hat tighten to a white-knuckled clench. "Micah shot Miss Grimshaw, and Dutch… he just let it happen."

_MICAH._ A white-hot cinder began to burn in the back of Sadie's throat. _Of course. That conniving little rat…_ She just barely held herself back from cursing him aloud, reluctant to disturb the flow of John's story.

"Arthur was there," John announced. "He was the only one who stayed by my side in that whole mess. We made a break for it… the place was swarming with Pinkertons. Arthur told me where you were, and Abigail and Jack, and…" He broke off, clenching his jaw and staring fixedly at the rising smoke.

"What happened to him?" The question had left Sadie's lips before she was even aware that she wanted to ask it. It occurred to her that she'd been dying to know ever since John had staggered into her sights the night before.

"He…" At first Sadie thought John would retreat from her question, but he tackled it head-on. "He stayed behind, to hold off the Pinkertons." He looked down, picking up his hat and staring at it as if it were a winning poker hand. "Saved my life…"

Sadie followed John's gaze, curious as to what had absorbed his attention. It was just a hat, why should he be so taken with-

Then the realization shook her to the core. The last time she'd seen that hat, it had been on _Arthur's_ head. _Look who's a damn fool for not noticing…_

The hat belonged to Arthur. Arthur, who had saved John's life. Arthur, who had heeded his better judgment and faced the Pinkertons head-on, because he couldn't let Jack live as an orphan. Arthur, who had likely been shot all to hell by the government agents, if that awful sickness hadn't gotten to him first, all because of fucking _Micah…_

The anger returned, whipping through Sadie with a force greater than lightning. By now it was a second skin in which she lived, a panacea she relied on day by day to keep her on her feet. Sometimes the rage that filled her inside and out was so strong that it scared her, but until now, she had never been so convinced that it was justified. T_hat goddamn yellow-bellied snake deserves to HURT for this…_

"Micah's the one who ratted us out," Sadie said rapidly. "It's his fault the law showed up when they did." _It's his fault Arthur's in the ground right now._

"I know," John said matter-of-factly. "Arthur told me."

"Well, shit," Sadie blurted. "Then you know this ain't over. Not 'til Micah's done for."

At last John met Sadie's eyes, a lost, desperate expression crawling up to the surface. "We can't go hunting him down now. The law'd be on us in seconds."

"I know," Sadie said. "I ain't saying now. But if I ever see that son of a bitch again, I don't care who you are, or who you're with. I'm coming for you, so we can put an end to his life." She narrowed her eyes a fraction, hoping to impress the severity of her statement upon John. "I expect you to do the same if it's yourself that finds him."

John's breath tumbled from his lungs in a heated rush. "Is that all you care about anymore? Taking revenge?"

He didn't seem sorry to have said it, and Sadie didn't bother to take offense. _If you only knew how many times a day I ask myself that._ Sometimes it felt like the respectable part of her, the part that wasn't interested in guns and vengeance, the part that knew how to interact nicely with folks, had gone down in flames the same night as her home. Like some kind of mythical creature, a new Sadie Adler had risen from its ashes. Half the time she didn't recognize the person she had been, and the rest of the time she didn't recognize the person she'd become.

_Is that what you're good for? Killing them as you believe deserve it?_ But Micah _did_ deserve it, dammit. Almost as much as Colm O'Driscoll and his lot had. Surely John understood. He'd been there, standing beside Arthur against a group of madmen.

"If anyone belongs in a shallow grave right now, it's Micah Bell," Sadie hissed.

John pressed his hand to his cheek, tiredly rubbing his eyes. "Any grave at all's too dignified. But… I got a family, Sadie. I've got to do right by them before I can even think about going after Micah."

Though John didn't sound entirely convinced of his responsibility, Sadie tried to let her anger simmer down. He was right, after all. She had nothing to lose, and he had so much to risk.

"Just promise me this," she breathed. "If you find him someday, you won't take him on alone."

Slowly, John nodded, before turning to Sadie and offering his hand.

"And if _you_ find him first… I'd hate for you to keep all the fun to yourself."

Sadie grasped John's hand, and they shook on it, a cold, shared understanding filling the air. In that moment, Sadie was fiercely glad that neither Abigail nor Jack were awake. If Abigail had laid down the law and forbade John to hunt down Micah, Sadie knew that he wouldn't have listened. She didn't want to cause a rift in the family that had already fought tooth and nail to stay together.

"Where you gonna go after this?" Sadie asked, turning her gaze to the fire's wavery heat.

John made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "Not sure. I reckon it'll be safer for us up north. Canada… the Yukon, maybe. Anywhere but… here."

"Here, or Tahiti," Sadie supplied.

Only the slightest twitch of John's lips revealed his amusement. "No, I hear Guarma's the one to avoid." He set Arthur's hat aside and tossed a handful of dry grass into the fire, stirring up the flames. "What about you?"

Sadie was silent as she began to seriously examine her options. Her journey with the Marston family was over, that much was clear. She wouldn't dare return to any of the hideouts where the gang had once frequented. Her family had long since moved on or passed, and she wasn't sure it was worth making the trip to see the ones left. Failing that, she was at a disadvantage- a widowed woman who had no interest in loving another man or giving him children, who'd run with a gang for several months and refused to wash the blood from her hands. Now that she'd fallen so far, why attempt to clamber back up?

Arthur's words vividly swept around Sadie- _We're more ghosts than people._ Like it or not- and Sadie didn't exactly like it- it was the truth. He'd seen straight through her that day. One foot was trapped in the grave and the other stuck to solid ground, determined to keep her upright despite how easy it would be to lie down. Not much was left for Sadie in the land of the living, but she'd already been through the worst ordeal she could have possibly imagined, had survived horrors that might have killed another person. Since God seemed so determined to keep her around, she might as well stick to it while laughing in His face.

"I dunno. Any place that'll have me." Sadie folded her knees to her chest and spread her arms across them. "And there ain't many of those to find."

John seemed to be on the verge of speaking, and for half a second Sadie wondered if he was going to invite her to stay with him. But he glanced away, clearly thinking the better of it. It wasn't his call to make, Sadie reckoned, and besides, she had already made up her mind not to accept. Her path would be forged alone.

"Well, good luck finding your way." John's voice softened. "Me and Abigail 'll miss ya."

"Aw, y'all don't need me around." As Sadie spoke, she saw Abigail stir by the fire, and slowly sat up straight. It was about time to get going.

"That being said, if anything good came out of this mess, I'm glad to have met your family. They're lucky to have you." She got to her feet, turning her back on John.

"I doubt Abigail would agree," John said, but Sadie could hear in his voice that he was touched. She would have smiled, but the expression didn't sit right on her face.

"Agree with what?" Abigail announced, rising from her bedroll and smoothing her fingers through her hair.

"Nothing," Sadie and John murmured at the same time.

With conflicted feelings, Sadie rode out shortly before she had to hear John repeat his story to Abigail. Faces and names swirled through her head- Arthur, Dutch, Micah, John- and with them, a burden of questions. Where would she go? What would she do? Who would she meet, and when?

Well, the open plains were vast enough for any adventure to take place. She'd run into one soon enough. Somewhere out there was a jagged hole in the world that Sadie fit into, rough edges and all. She only had to discover it.


	2. Charles

_No news is good news_, so the saying went, but after a week up in Canada without word from a single member of his former gang, Charles Smith's patience was at its breaking point. He hadn't initially had much time to reflect when aiding the Wapiti tribe in their northbound flight, and the process of easing their settlement was a full-time task. But more and more often, Charles found his mind creeping back to the ones he'd left behind, whom he hadn't been able to save.

Was the gang still intact? Had others followed his lead and fled? Had Dutch come to his senses, or descended to a dark place beyond repair? Had the law come down on them? Most importantly, how many were left?

Day after day, Charles ended up struggling against the urge to hop on a train and ride back to Beaver Hollow on his own, even though he knew showing his face so soon would be suicide. He wanted to kick himself for not having established any contacts in the area, or revealing to anyone where he had gone. Well, besides Arthur… but if Charles stopped to ponder why Arthur hadn't contacted him, he found himself soon needing a distraction.

Several more days passed before word came in, along with the final stragglers from the Wapiti's former reservation. Upon arriving at the camp, most of them embraced their loved ones out of sheer relief, but one man headed straight for Charles. _Paytah_. He'd stayed behind to help those who were injured in battle with the military, who had been too weak to travel. Charles couldn't help but uncomfortably note that the group was smaller now than when he'd left it.

"Paytah," he greeted him as he approached.

"Charles." Paytah halted, wearing the stern expression he'd adopted ever since Eagles Flies' death. "I come with news from Beaver Hollow."

"Yeah?" Immediately Charles felt as if a vice had clamped around his stomach. He couldn't acknowledge how grateful he was to hear the news at last, because of the numerous possibilities for disaster. "What happened down there?"

"Your gang is gone," Paytah said. "Scattered. The Pinkerton agents got to them. They left behind a couple bodies."

_Bodies… NO. No._

"Whose bodies?" Charles asked quietly.

"One was a woman," said Paytah, as easily as if Charles had asked him a question about the weather. "And the other… well." Discomfort arose on his face. "The other was your friend. The one who helped us out- Arthur."

Death and suffering were facts that Charles had long since grown used to, but Paytah's words still jerked him up short. He took a moment to compose himself, to squeeze the world back into its usual shape.

_Arthur…_

It wasn't surprising at all, really. Arthur had looked like death warmed over the last time Charles had seen him, his eyes ringed with blood and his flesh ghost-like and pale. The moment Charles had wrapped his arms around his bony body, he'd known Arthur wasn't long for this world. But to receive confirmation in such a specific, impersonal manner was jarring. How could he really be sure if he hadn't seen it for himself?

"You sure it was Arthur?" he murmured. Paytah nodded sadly, looking as if he wished to comfort Charles, but knew it was beyond his abilities.

"I'm sorry, Charles. I thought it best to tell you right away."

"Thank you." Charles watched Paytah turn around and stagger back to his party, while questions surged within his head. Had Paytah found any signs of a struggle? Had Arthur or the unknown woman been mortally wounded? What was left of the gang's camp?

Overall, the news raised more questions than it answered. _And there's only one way to answer them…_

Returning was complete madness. Even an outsider could see that. But waiting around and never knowing for sure what had happened was madness as well. In a few seconds, Charles' mind was made up.

_Here's hoping enough days have passed for this thing to blow over._ The threat of the law had been hanging over Charles' head for years- it would take far more than that to keep him away now.

* * *

Charles' trip down from Canada was uneventful, even dull. It wasn't until he'd stepped off the train at his final destination that agitation began to stir in his chest. For a while he couldn't pinpoint the source of the fear. Being arrested no longer felt like the end of the line, and no one remained in the area for whose well-being he cared. But as Charles rode through the woods up to Beaver Hollow, his heart pulsed stubbornly, despite his persistent efforts to calm himself.

The ground was soft underfoot, the air silent save for his steed's heavy breathing. Now and then Charles glanced behind to make sure he wasn't being followed, but he sensed no human life about, nor signs of the struggle that had taken place not long ago. Nature, as was its wont, had reclaimed its identity. The thought provided a measure of comfort, but Charles knew he wouldn't be able to rest until he had reached his destination and learned of his friends' fate.

_If the Pinkertons touched a single body, I swear…_

As with the woods, nature had erased evidence of the Van der Linde gang's existence from the surface of Beaver Hollow. It could not be said to have lost its glory, for it had possessed none to lose. Though the sun shone overhead, Charles felt a dismal, pervasive chill as he approached the former campsite. Although he walked alone, the voices of his friends still rang in his ears, locked in hopeless squabbles which he had no way to defuse. He'd been fortunate to get out when he had, before relations had soured further. But when Charles' sweeping gaze zeroed in on a fallen, human figure, he didn't feel fortunate at all.

After dismounting, Charles approached the body carefully, half-afraid to discover its identity and half-aching to know. He was only a few paces away when he realized it was Miss Grimshaw, silenced by a bullet to the gut.

_Did the Pinkertons get her?_ Why hadn't she run for cover? Why had she fallen here, prematurely, refusing to abandon camp? Kneeling in the damp earth, Charles inspected Grimshaw's wound, but the results were inconclusive. It wasn't outside the bounds of comprehension for Grimshaw to have guarded the camp singlehandedly, but she would have never let anyone get close enough to shoot her from such a short range. Unless the shooter had worn a familiar face…

Charles stopped himself before pursuing that train of thought. Indulging in speculation was never a good thing. Though the area's recent rainfall had left Charles little choice for anything else. He wouldn't get answers unless he ran into an eyewitness, and something told Charles that the only eyewitnesses left were not the kind of folks with whom he wanted to associate.

Whatever had happened, it didn't seem fair to leave Miss Grimshaw unceremoniously rotting away. Gently Charles lifted her body and carried it to his horse. He'd find a better site for her grave elsewhere. Now that he'd recovered the unknown woman's body, it was time to search for the one he'd been expecting.

_At least Arthur got away from camp,_ Charles mused as he rode, scouting nearby paths in hopes of singling out the one his friend had taken. Presumably he'd stayed on his feet, fighting to the very end. That seemed fitting. But of course, any prints that potentially pointed to his resting place had already been washed away. Lesser men might have turned back, but Charles kept going, shrewdly inspecting every twig and stone he passed for clues. It was simple- if Arthur was here, he must be found.

Finally, after climbing a hill several miles from Beaver Hollow, Charles spotted a significant lead- bones littering the cold ground. His heartbeat spiked- _don't tell me the Murfrees got to him…_ But when Charles dismounted and studied the bones, it quickly dawned that they were the remnants of a horse. For that, he couldn't blame whoever had stripped and skinned it. Horsemeat was a viable source of sustenance, after all. Still, the discovery only urged Charles to ride faster. He doubted the sick, twisted bastards he'd observed in the area cared to distinguish between horse and human.

Charles' path took him up the cliffside, across a winding, treacherous way. Yet he felt no fear as he spurred his horse on… only to haul off as he rounded a bend and spotted another body in the distance. Instantly Charles dismounted and raced across the cliff, but he didn't need to see the man's face to know who it was.

"Arthur…"

Arthur lay huddled and lifeless on the ground. Even now, his gaunt physique and bloodless face startled Charles all over again. Mercifully, his eyes were closed, and after a hasty inspection, Charles spotted no wounds on his body. The only blood he sported was flecked around his mouth, likely from his illness. Had he struggled against an enemy on this cliff? Or had the only struggle come from within? Either way, he had clearly lacked allies in his final minutes. Otherwise he wouldn't still be lying here, unburied, un-mourned. Or else, the gang had slipped further than Charles had thought- every man out only for himself.

Dropping to his knees, Charles reached for Arthur's hand. Only when he touched the cold, pallid skin did he become aware of a hard knot in his chest, and a sudden burn in his eyes.

_My friend…_

Their last moment together played itself through Charles' head- how fragile yet resilient Arthur had seemed, how he'd slipped from Charles' arms and never looked back. And now here he was, lying dead on the side of a cliff._ If only he had stayed…_

If only Charles hadn't urged him to return to the gang. If only he'd had the benefit of foresight, and was able to warn Arthur that despite his faith in them, the gang wouldn't be around much longer, that Dutch had nothing left to offer him or anyone else.

But none of that made a difference, and Charles was foolish to think otherwise. Only selfishness tethered him to his regrets. Arthur would have died regardless of his surroundings and company.

Charles wasn't sure how long he sat there, motionless, fighting back the tears obscuring his vision. He also wasn't sure what finally snapped him out of his stupor. One moment he was on the ground, and the next he was on his feet, lifting Arthur's body. Just like Miss Grimshaw, Arthur deserved a proper burial somewhere more dignified. Anywhere other than this desolate landscape that had never really felt like a home.

Burdened by the weight of three bodies, the horse's progress down the mountain was slow. At first all of Charles' senses were on alert, lest an assailant take him by surprise and desecrate his precious cargo. But the closer they got to steady ground, the more his mind wandered, eventually striking on an ancient phrase:

_Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted._

Charles had seen the phrase many times, inscribed in cemeteries and on occasional glances through the Bible, but his most enduring memory of it was that of his father reading to him as a child. The Beatitudes, he'd since learned the passage was called. It was one of the few parts of the Bible that Charles had cared to remember. He let the words swell within his head.

_Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth._

_Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled._

_Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy._

_Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God._

_Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God…_

Who among us is blessed? Me? Arthur? Arthur could hardly have been called meek, nor pure of heart. At times he'd been merciful, but to claim he'd been shown mercy was a stretch. Perhaps he'd been a peacemaker, when the time called for it, and maybe he had once mourned, though Charles hadn't witnessed it. Righteousness, though… Arthur had always known the difference between right and wrong, even when he didn't behave accordingly. The fact that he had died out here, far from camp and the ones he'd once called his family, showed that in the end he'd understood how meaningless loyalty was, when he didn't have it in return. He'd lost the fight against his better nature. And just as the Beatitudes suggested, it was to be hoped that he'd received fulfillment in turn.

_Arthur may have been blessed in his search for righteousness. But as for me… I was blessed to have known him._


	3. John

After a hard, day-long ride, every muscle in John Marston's body was aching to rest, but even as he deposited himself onto the ground before a sputtering fire, his thoughts continued to gallop at an uneven pace. There was no point in pursuing the trail after sundown. The sudden briskness in the air had sapped the strength from himself, Sadie, and Charles, and they'd need all their wits about them in order to finish this mess. But the chill only spurred John further, because along with the rocky terrain, it meant that they were getting closer to where a certain smug, oily bastard lay in wait.

_Won't be long now… I hope._

Across the fire, Sadie apparently shared John's restlessness, because she busied herself with mindless tasks- feeding and thoroughly brushing her horse, meticulously cleaning each of her weapons, checking and double-checking her provisions. John didn't doubt that she was already tasting blood. Charles, on the other hand, remained stoic as usual. He sat to John's far right, out of his range of vision, but with each measured breath, John knew he was still there. He stretched his hands toward the fire, his leather gloves lapping up its warmth.

_Soon…_, whispered a voice in his head. _Soon…_

In a moment, John heard the nearby rustle of gravel. He tilted his head to see Charles approaching. Leaping flames reflected in his dark, still eyes, and he gripped a folded scrap of paper in one hand.

"I've got something for you." Without further explanations, Charles passed the paper to John. John took it, but didn't unfold it, feeling its flimsy weight shudder in the breeze.

"What is it?" he said.

"A map." Charles was solemn. "I drew it myself, after I buried Arthur. Once this is all over, maybe you could…"

He didn't finish his sentence, and John understood why.

The words beat around his brain- _YOU could_. Not _we,_ because Charles was living a borrowed life at Beecher's Hope. Not _we,_ because in burying Arthur, he had done more than enough. Not _we,_ because Charles knew that John would prefer it that way. Arthur Morgan was a ghost that John had to face on his own. Once this business with Micah was settled… it was past time to do right by him.

"I understand," John said softly. "Thank you." He slipped the map into his satchel, just barely catching Charles' nod out of the corner of his eye. From across the campfire, Sadie paused in her weapons-cleaning to eyeball John, but he ignored the look.

Over the countless nights they'd spent together at Beecher's Hope, stretched side by side on bedrolls under a developing roof, John and Charles had discussed a great deal- from how well the house was turning out, to whether Charles had any future prospects, to just how old Uncle really was, anyway. But the conversations rarely circled around to past events. John supposed it was no secret that he preferred it that way. The past was, well, in the past. What use was there in discussing things that would never change? Remembering was hard enough. Verbally reliving it was too much to ask.

Even after eight years, the details of that fateful night crawled to the surface of John's brain, as if no time had passed at all. Being shot turned out to matter very little when it came to the sting of betrayal. After painfully struggling all the way back to camp, avoiding the law at every turn, John's emotions overwhelmed him the instant he glimpsed Dutch again. "You left me! You left me to die!" All clever and defiant remarks dried up, leaving him unable to do anything but hurl the accusation over and over. "You… _left me!"_

Then he was fighting for his life with Arthur at his side, and even in the din of gunshots and shouting John somehow processed that this was it. Grimshaw was dead, Dutch was over the edge of sanity and Micah, Bill, Javier… had they ever cared in the first place? Arthur was the only one left. Arthur, who, despite everything, had always had his back. Arthur… his brother.

_Quite a pair,_ John remembered thinking as he stumbled through the dark cave, clutching his unbandaged wound. _Me with my busted arm, him with his…_ No. There had been no words to put to what Arthur was going through. John hadn't even wanted to think about it. He'd noticed the coughing and the blood, of course, but as he heard Arthur spluttering and wheezing behind him, the severity of his condition bludgeoned him in a swift, sudden burst. Part of him wished he could slow down, for Arthur's sake, but there was no time, no time…

_It's okay. He's going to make it. He's GOTTA make it. We'll get out of these mountains and find Abigail and Jack, and then we'll all be safe…_

But of course, it hadn't worked out that way. John emerged from his reminiscing before Arthur's voice could resound through his ears. _Get out of here, and be a goddamn man!_ For eight years, he'd tried to do just that, but deep down he'd known it would never be over until at least one guilty party was brought to justice.

John stared grimly into the crackling campfire. _Someday…_ Maybe someday he'd elaborate to Charles and Sadie on just how Arthur had saved him, and what his sacrifice had meant. Maybe someday he'd be able to reflect on the past without feeling like it was consuming him whole. But not now. Not until they found Micah, and put an end to his miserable existence like they should have done long ago.

_Maybe killing Micah isn't what Arthur wanted. But it's what he deserves._

* * *

The horizon was tinged with pink and gold by the time John and Abigail rode into Blackwater following their wedding ceremony. Initially John had been concerned when Abigail suggested leaving the ranch for a night, but it hadn't taken much to convince him to rent a room together at the town's inn. Even though the whirlwind planning for his wedding had served as a much-needed distraction, John hadn't slept soundly since his return from the mountains. A night out with Abigail would do him some good. Jack and Rufus were safe in the capable hands of Sadie and Charles, both of whom had been invited to Beecher's Hope to recuperate from the nasty injuries Micah's men had dealt them. And Beecher's Hope itself was in the decidedly-less-capable hands of Uncle, which ordinarily would have worried John, but after singing and dancing the day away with his family, he couldn't bring himself to voice any complaints.

Outside the inn, John hitched his horse before helping Abigail down. She smirked at him as his fingers trailed against her arms. "Why thank you kindly, good sir."

A buoyant smile came to John's face. No doubt he looked foolish, but he didn't care if the whole world saw. "Allow me to sweep you off your feet." With ease, John lifted Abigail into his arms. She squealed giddily and clutched at his neck.

"John Marston!" Laughter poured from her. "Just what are you doing?"

"I'm carrying my bride across the threshold." John bent his head to gaze into Abigail's eyes. Beneath her constant jives, she burned with a fierce love that never failed to astound him. They'd struggled so hard- coming together, falling apart, pushing each other away only to turn to each other when no one else was left. And now, there was no need to struggle. No longer did John fear a silent gun stealing upon him in the night, seeking retribution for a past misdeed, and no longer would Abigail worry herself sick over his whereabouts. The only threat to their existence was the simple, natural passage of time.

Fond exasperation played across Abigail's face. "Ain't ya supposed to do that at your new home? Not at a hotel?"

"Who made you the expert on marital traditions, Mrs. Marston?" John teased. He pressed his forehead against hers, feeling her breath warm against his face, before striding through the hotel's doors. Despite the odd looks, John cradled Abigail close as he rented a room, trudged down the hall, and unlocked its door. He only put her down once they had reached the bed.

* * *

John awoke to the sound of silence, an occurrence so unusual that he immediately assumed he was still dreaming. But the mattress felt so soft beneath his body, the sheets so smooth on his skin… and Abigail so warm beside him, so solid in the morning light. Closing his eyes, John indulged himself in a blissful fantasy that the outside world had melted away, along with all his obligations, before rolling over to study her serene face. Abigail's breathing was light, and her eyes moved rapidly beneath her eyelids.

"Hey," John breathed.

Abigail's eyes opened, and she blinked, trying to focus her sleep-dazed vision before remembering where she was. She broke into a dazzling smile. "Hey, you."

John moved closer to share the heat of Abigail's body, and she reached out a hand. Her fingertips gently ran along the scars on his cheek, and John nearly trembled at the touch. He grabbed her wrist and drew her hand to his lips, before the sheen of her wedding ring caught his eye. In seconds, his mind was tumbling backwards to the day he'd found the ring, carefully nestled among Arthur's belongings. He'd had a sneaking suspicion of who it had once belonged to, but it wasn't until he'd stumbled across a folded letter in the back of Arthur's journal that its meaning had come to light.

_It's better to have loved and lost…_ and thank God Abigail had returned, or John would have ended up as hopelessly broken-hearted as Arthur. But he'd already had an advantage, hadn't he? For eight years he'd been living a life free from the demands of power-hungry outlaws, and Arthur had never even gotten the chance.

A strangely urgent heaviness filled John as he reflected on all that Arthur had lacked, and all that he himself had gained. He didn't want to breathe a word to Abigail and spoil their shared peace, but the image of the map that Charles had drawn began to pulse in the back of his head. Claiming Micah's life had been one thing… but despite what John had told Abigail upon his return, it wasn't _entirely_ over.

Carefully, John met Abigail's eyes. "What do you think of that ring?"

Abigail hummed with appreciation. "It's beautiful. Though I think it's best if you don't tell me how you paid for it."

"I didn't have to pay for it," John murmured. "It was… well, I found it with Arthur's things. You know- in the satchel he left me."

The explanation was surprisingly easy, but when Abigail's eyes grew overcast, John half-heartedly wished he hadn't said anything. Arthur was a subject around which he often skirted, despite Abigail's occasional attempts to drag it into the light. At any moment a trap door might open beneath his feet and plunge him into a conversation for which he might never be ready.

"He did so _much_ for us, John," Abigail breathed, sounding as if she were on equally unsteady ground. John tightened his arm around her, wondering if she ever considered whether they were worthy of salvation, the same way he did.

"Don't I know it."

Abigail sighed. Craving her touch, but not wanting to gaze into her piercing eyes, John rolled onto his back. Abigail curled up against her pillow, letting go of John's hand to rest her hand upon his bare chest.

After a long moment of silence, John's heartbeat thrumming beneath Abigail's fingers, John took a deep breath.

"Before we begin our new life, there's one last trip I have to make."

Without looking at Abigail, John felt her sudden stiffness, the subtle recoil of her body. "I thought that business was finished when Micah was finished."

_Of course she would bring that up._ John wasn't sure whether to react with laughter or disappointment. The vows they'd exchanged the day before permanently ensured that John had no intention of running away and settling old scores- not that there were any left to settle. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, Abigail would always be waiting for John to misstep, backsliding into his old ways. John supposed he deserved it, for all the years he'd spent repeating his mistakes, but he still wasn't comfortable with the assumption.

"That_ business_ is over. Trust me. This is… completely different." Slowly John exhaled, focusing his gaze on Abigail's left hand to remind him of what he had to do. "Charles gave me a map when we were in the mountains… Told me it leads to Arthur's grave." He met Abigail's eyes with an odd sense of self-consciousness. "I think I'm due for a visit."

Comprehension rounded out the harsh lines of suspicion between Abigail's eyes. John twitched in surprise as she took his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

"This time, I'm coming with you."

It wasn't a response John had anticipated, and his first instinct was to agree- _yes, you come with me_. But the more he gazed at Abigail, the sooner he realized his instinct was borne from a sense of obligation. There was so much life within Abigail, the promise of shared beauty and joy in their near future. Uprooting her to face the ghosts of his ugly past seemed a cruel and unfair juxtaposition.

Besides… the matter was private, and as deeply as Abigail cared, John knew she would never understand what had happened all those years ago between himself and Arthur. Not really. Even he didn't fully understand it. What could Arthur have seen in him that made him so convinced that he wouldn't turn out badly? How could he have had so much faith in John- more than he'd had in Dutch, in the end?

"There's no need for that. You stay home, look after the house, and our boy." The suggestion slipped unthinkingly from John's lips. "I'll take you up another time."

He expected Abigail to press the matter with an argument, and prepared for his defeat in a verbal battle. But Abigail only nodded. "Okay then." Her gaze was so soft and warm that John couldn't resist the urge to gently kiss her. As their lips met, her vigor and determination lapped over him, as if he was drawing strength from her. _God,_ he'd have been a fool to throw this away.

"I love you, darling."

A smile touched Abigail's lips. "Love you, John."

* * *

Arthur's gravesite was a long ride out, and John set out late in the day, resulting in the need to set up camp. He powered through his dinner; Abigail's cooking warmed up over a fire was still Abigail's cooking. Though John had to admit he preferred a lovingly-prepared meal to a hasty, impersonal kill roasted on the point of a stick. He'd lived off the land enough in the past.

On a night like this, nestled safely in a ring of trees bordering a wide open field, John couldn't say he didn't sometimes miss living apart from civilization. Being out in the wild on his own was practically second nature. He tilted his head upwards to gaze at the overhanging stars, trying to determine how much progress he'd made by their positions. A fleeting urge to draw the night sky rose within him, but it passed quickly- there wasn't much to see. When he was young, he'd once ridden at night with Hosea, who had slowed their pace to point out constellations. But John had only been half-listening, eager as he was to return to camp, and the notion made little sense. Now he found himself wishing he'd paid attention, or at least had understood what Hosea was talking about. Perhaps it took a different sort of mind to look up into the abyss and see pictures, rather than random specks of light. Hosea had undoubtedly possessed that sort of mind- as had Arthur.

Thoughts of Arthur drew John's gaze away from the heavens, to the dancing, spirited flames of his campfire and their twisting plumes of smoke. The sight never failed to captivate him. What was it Hosea had said? _Stare into a fire long enough, and you'll see the whole world pass by. _He reached into his satchel for Arthur's journal- no matter how many times John told himself it was _his_ journal now, the idea never stuck- but the desire to capture the image fizzled out before he could reach for a pen. He'd drawn in the journal a great deal, but somehow his attempts never looked exactly like what he was trying to depict, unlike Arthur's well-crafted sketches. How had he done it? Surely that was another sign that he and Arthur were fundamentally different- that the other man had possessed some sort of wisdom and sharpness that John never would, simply because he hadn't been born with it.

It hadn't taken much to convince John of such, in the first place. All he'd had to do was open Arthur's journal. He'd been unexpectedly fortunate to start reading it on a night not long after escaping the gang, when both Abigail and Jack had gone to bed. As John skimmed page one, every instinct screamed to put the journal away- likely from a leftover fear that Arthur would find out and then he'd be sorry. But his eyes remained fastened to each carefully-inked word. Only when he'd finished devouring it, wringing every last ounce of meaning from its entries, did he realize he was shaking. Sleep had evaded him that night. No matter how closely he curled up to Abigail, Arthur's words continued to dance before his eyes. Every mention of John's name, and the names of his family, resounded like a painful thump on the head.

_All this time and I never knew…_ Though John had often assumed Arthur was a smarter man than he could ever hope to be, he hadn't realized just how much inner life teemed beneath his surface. When reading Arthur's brilliantly-composed passages, Dutch's passionate speeches rang hollow and tawdry in John's ears. Yet Arthur had kept this talent to himself, while Dutch would have spread his words to the world if he'd had the chance.

At first John wished he'd never read the journal. Even though Arthur no longer had a say, it felt like a violation. Surely the journal had been the last thing on Arthur's mind when he'd given up his satchel. Stocked with countless provisions, it had been John's saving grace during those rough few days of lying low on the road, unwilling to place his trust in strangers. Protecting John was Arthur's foremost goal, not protecting his privacy. But no matter John's reaction, at least the journal hadn't fallen into the hands of the Pinkertons, or anyone else who might have stumbled across Arthur's body in the days before Charles found him. Only at the end of Arthur's life had John begun to see the man for who he truly was inside. It felt appropriate to be granted this insight into his soul, no matter how difficult it was to read it.

Lying back on his bedroll, John let the stars draw him away from his memories. The future came into focus instead. Tomorrow, after eight long years, he'd be able to live with a clear conscience, knowing that he had repaid Arthur for his outstanding act of kindness. That Micah was dead on the ground, without so much as a burial. That finally, he had become the man Arthur had always dreamed he would be.

Before drifting into sleep, John's last thought was, _I hope, somehow, he knows._

* * *

The morning's sharp freshness hadn't quite left the air by the time John reached the mountains, and the altitude only added to that. He took the ride leisurely, drinking in the sight of the valley below as he wound up through the mountains. Hairs began standing up on the back of his neck, but he wasn't sure if the wind was the cause of it.

After several exhaustive minutes spent guiding his horse around precarious rocks, John reached a stable cliff. Thanks to Charles' map, John knew full well what was at the edge of the cliff, but the moment he caught sight of it, he halted his horse and stared for what felt like an eternity.

On the map, Charles had marked the gravesite with a cross, but John hadn't really expected a marker, much less the one before him. It wasn't ornate, nor was it overly simplistic- Charles had crafted it well. What surprised John most of all was the crop of orange blossoms surrounding it, shivering and bending under the weight of the breeze. _No need to leave flowers. He's got more than enough already._

Slowly, John approached the grave, treading lightly as if the ground would crumble to pieces beneath him. He felt as if he were moving across the bottom of a lake, peering up through the water at the murky, dappled sunspots overhead. Time seemed to have stopped, and even the ambient noise around him was muffled.

_Hello, Arthur,_ he thought, but his lips wouldn't form the words. The sun shone upon the polished stone, drilling the marker's inscription into his head- BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO HUNGER AND THIRST FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS.

For a long moment John stood motionless, speechless. He'd wanted to leave something here in remembrance, or simply say some words, but the peaceful stillness had taken his breath away. Besides… who would listen? Arthur wasn't _here_. Sure, his body lay somewhere beneath John's feet, but that hadn't been what defined him in the end. Ever since their reunion at the penitentiary, to their final moments on the mountainside, Arthur had seemed to be struggling from within- a tremendously vital spirit locked inside a decaying shell. Even as he'd coughed and gasped for air, he'd spent his breath insisting that John ditch the gang and reinvent himself. And he hadn't stopped breathing until the goal was seen to completion.

_At the end, he cared more for my life than his._ For years, the bizarre notion had bowled John over whenever he dared to look back on that night. He'd been so concerned with the belief that he hadn't been worth saving. But now that it was all said and done- now that John and his family were truly free, just as Arthur had wanted- there was nothing left to do but feel grateful. He'd have never imagined being happy with such a life, and without Arthur, he wouldn't have had a life at all.

At last John moved, drawing Arthur's journal from his satchel. Suddenly he knew exactly how he wanted to honor him.

It took several labored minutes of scratching and erasing and squinting in the sun, but finally the drawing of Arthur's gravestone was identical to its counterpart. Almost as if another hand had guided John. Or maybe all that practice in the field had paid off. Either way, he doubted he'd ever get it right again. But that was fine, because the pages were running out. It couldn't have worked out better if he'd planned it. _One last sketch, in Arthur's name._

"Guess we're just about done here, my friend."

Silently, he added, _Thank you._


End file.
